


Consortium

by theangrymortal



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Medium Burn, Slow Burn, Yearning, touch-starved brahms, touch-starved greta for that matter!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrymortal/pseuds/theangrymortal
Summary: A universe in which Greta doesn’t leave Brahms behind, and the Heelshire’s could’ve done better.
Relationships: Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	1. Resolve

**Author's Note:**

> A lil canon-divergence ain’t hurt nobody 😏

When Brahms steps from his space in the wall, clouds of dust billowing around him, Greta is conflicted.

She is vindicated by the fear in Cole’s face, afraid of what this babysitting job has spiralled, so awfully, into. She feels betrayed by the man in the wall. The Boy. Because he’s not what she thought he was.

No one moves. No one breathes, except him, the sound shuddering, eerily muffled by the porcelain mask. A clump of drywall crunches under his foot and the spell is broken as Cole takes a step back, but Brahms is faster, brawnier. His fingers, filthy, wrap around Cole’s shoulder and Greta does nothing as they tumble onto the hardwood.

Cole yells, noisy (so _fucking_ noisy but Brahms is so so quiet) and incoherent, and it takes her a full second (maybe more, maybe less) to realize that she shouldn’t just let him die, beaten to death on the ground. 

So she yells for Brahms to stop.

It feels like a lie as it leaves her mouth. (She wanted him _gone_.) Cole had done worse than physical damage, (She _asked_ Brahms to fix this.) he had killed her child, ( _Is this fixing it?_ ) killed her spirit, ( _No, but he deserves it_.) and when she finally found it in herself to leave him, to escape the weak creature he turned her into...

He followed. ( _He brought this on himself_.)

Greta is too busy in her thoughts to register Brahms reaching for the jagged porcelain until it sinks into Cole’s neck, too busy to remember there’s another living person in this room besides her and Brahms.

A hand clasps around her waist and turns her towards the door. Malcolm. She had honestly forgotten he was there, and his sudden touch causes her to jump higher than she would care to admit. 

Greta lets another man make the choices for her.

~~

They had gotten so close to escaping, but he caught them at the door. 

Brahms hands are pale, clenched tightly around the attic hook he just used to break Malcolm’s ribs, and Greta wonders if she’s delusional, or if she really sees those brutish hands shake. 

“If you- if you leave, I’ll kill him!” His voice is deep, _trembling_ , no longer pitched higher into the child’s voice, but the immaturity lingers still.

 _Him_ , she thinks. _Not her_. He would never hurt _her_ , she’s sure of this, but she doesn’t want Malcolm to die. He was kind to her, had even taken a fancy to her. He didn’t deserve to die because of her irresponsibility. 

She doesn’t move, firmly planted at the doorway, unable to tear her eyes from the scene before her.

“ _Brahms_ ,” He starts at his name, as if he never expected Greta to say it again, as if he expected her to leave, despite his threats. His eyes meet hers, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m not…” She starts talking before she can help it, rambling, not sure what she’s even trying to say until it’s been said. 

“I’m not mad at you.” And the moment it leaves her mouth, she realizes the depths of its truth. She isn’t mad at Brahms. She’s not even scared of him. At this, his shoulders relax.

And suddenly, she can see a way out of this mess.

She inches forward, towards the beast in front of her, and gently lays her hand on top of his.

“ _Brahms, I am not mad at you,_ ” his hands are more than warm beneath hers, scorching. “-but we need to get Malcolm to the hospital right now.”

~~

Brahms is quiet as he easily scoops the man up, and sets him into the car gentler than Greta expects.

He does as she asks, then wordlessly gets into the backseat.

The car ride to the hospital is silent, save for Malcolm’s shallow breathing. Greta isn’t a doctor, but she’s at least 80% sure that his ribs are broken, and likely puncturing his lung. She hopes that isn’t fatal. She hopes that she can help him.

She’s driven ten minutes before she realizes she doesn’t know where she’s going, and an anxious knot ties in her throat. How _stupid_ can she be? She’s been here nearly a month but she hasn’t left the manor once; Greta has _no clue_ where she’s going. 

She stuffs her hand into her pocket, and tosses Brahms her phone, incredibly cracked from their chase through the house, but still workable. He jumps at the attack, a short grunt filtering through the mask.

“Could you look up the-?” She looks back at him to find that even without seeing his face, confusion is clearly laced through it. The phone sits in his lap, untouched. 

_Oh my fucking god, what is she expecting?_ For him to be able to use a smartphone? 

“Sorry-“ She leans back quickly and grabs the phone, taps into the maps application before remembering a crucial detail.

She barely managed to get to the Heelshire house when she first arrived, because of the lack of cell service, _why in the fuck_ would she suddenly have bars now? The urge to throw her phone out the window seizes her before she simply lets it fall from her hand into the floorboard. Her hand slides back onto the steering wheel with a vice grip. _Worthless_ , she’s _so fucking stupid_ , her eyes are burning.

Malcolm is gonna die in her passenger seat, and it’s _all her fault, she’s such an idiot_ , she should’ve been smarter, Malcolm is gonna die because of her _negligence_ and-

The headlights of her rental catch a little blue sign off the road and suddenly she can breathe again. Thank god for road signs.

She’s going the right way. It’s pure _luck_ , but she’s going the right way.

~~

As she turns into the hospital parking, she realizes she’s not sure how she intended to do this. To leave Malcolm and go back home, to answer no questions and hope Malcolm does the same.

( _To protect Brahms_.)

Would Malcolm do that for someone who beat him more-than-half to death? 

“We’re going to put him at the door.” She’s mostly talking to herself, but she hears Brahms voice, soft and enunciated strangely.

“Ok, Greta.” She silently wonders if he ever answered her like this when she asked questions in the Heelshire house, or if he silently watched her live there, watched her interact with a doll as if it were alive. 

As if it were him.

She pulls into the emergency area and shifts into park rougher than intended, wincing before getting out of the car. She prays that no one sees them, Brahms more than her. A massive man in a mask isn’t easy to forget, and more so than ever, she would like to be forgotten.

They leave Malcolm at the door and all Greta can do is hope she made the right decision.

~~

When they’re finally back home, Greta almost forgets there’s a dead body in the billiards room. She simply opens the door, and waits for Brahms to follow her in before closing it.

He does, very awkwardly, his steps uneven and slow. Where his breathing was loud before, it’s now quiet as his face is turned upwards, looking at the mahogany door frame, porcelain face unreadable.

Greta takes the time unwatched to look at him properly. The first word she can think of is _dirty_ , but she doesn’t mean this meanly, just certain he hasn’t taken a proper bath in a heinous amount of time. The second word she thinks is _big_ , which he is. Definitely more than six feet, how in the hell did he manage to move so quickly in the wa-?

“Long time.” She nearly jumps at his voice, too immersed in the silence, examining him, to expect words.

“What?” Nevermind register them. 

“Long time since I came through the front.” Brahm’s voice isn’t deep, but not the child facade either; some weird in between, like he can’t find where to fit. He waits a moment, thinking. “Long time since I went out at all.” His hands settle behind his back, near-black eyes resting on Greta’s. 

They stand there, silent, looking at eachother, before Greta moves towards the billiards room. The door is already open when they get there, no one had thought to close it, and why would they?

To her surprise, Cole is still dead on the floor.

To Brahms’ surprise, she falls unconscious. He catches her.

~~

It’s barely dawn when Greta wakes in her bed, sore all over, but not from her fall.

She sighs out a swear and sits up as quickly as she can manage before going straight to the billiards room, intent on not fainting this time around. 

Cole is gone (Greta is thankful she doesn’t have to look at him again.), the floor is mostly cleaned, but clearly by someone who has never cleaned before.

She calls for Brahms once, twice, before he comes out of the same hole from last night, significantly less dramatic than before. His eyes flit to Greta before falling on the ground.

“We have got to stop meeting like this.” It’s under his breath, in an American accent, like he’s quoting something and doesn’t expect Greta to hear. But she does, and exhales a laugh through her nose before she has the chance to think of how weird this all is.

He can make jokes? ( _Greta can laugh?_ )

“Where is…” it’s so hard to say his name for some reason, like the second she starts, her tongue glues to the top of her mouth. She doesn’t finish. They are both silent. 

“It’s in the woods. All done, Greta.” And his eyes are on her, examining her, as he always had. But this time is different than all the others, because she’s looking at him too. He’s even filthier than before, somehow, dirt clumped on the heels of his shoes. He should be scary, absolutely frightening, because of his size and general unhinged disposition, but there’s… something. His posture is perfect, and his movements careful, so gentle in the way he holds himself that it crushes Greta’s fear completely. 

He can’t hurt her, again, she’s certain.

“Let’s-“ She breathes a deep breath before continuing. “Let’s eat first-“ Greta swears she sees him perk up, his undereyes lifting just the tiniest bit.

“-Then we can finish cleaning up the house.”

~~

Brahm’s is possibly the most awkward being Greta has ever laid eyes on, and this is an awkward situation even for a normal person.

(Actually, Greta is no longer a normal person, so maybe she doesn’t have room to talk.)

He is perched on a barstool at the island (Greta had to ask him to sit down, otherwise he was hovering), watching Greta make eggs. He touches nothing but what he needs to to be considered “seated.” He does exactly as she asks, nothing more.

Greta is no cook; she knows how to make- ( _definition - not fuck up_ ) -three things: eggs, bacon, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. So she went with the warmer option, something to take away the chill she’s felt for the past twelve hours. She scrambles four eggs and splits them into two plates, before setting one in front of Brahms.

He makes no move to eat. In fact, he doesn’t move at all. 

_Did she not make enough? He is rather big for only two eggs._ She hears him breathe through his mask, a sigh, before she realizes. 

_Does he not want her to see?_

“I could- turn…? If you want me to.” Brahms face lifts up at her (he’s honestly so dirty, but she can fix that after they finish cleaning up the house) confused, before she lightly taps at her face, miming his mask.

“...Please.” His voice cracks a bit as he pushes out the word, not used to speaking directly to people. She turns in her seat in response, setting her eggs on her lap, and looks at the kitchen wall, listening to the man beside her eat. Curiosity fills her, but she squishes it down. 

“Thank you.”

She would respect this boundary.

~~

It takes them no time to clean, even with Brahms inexperience. Greta simply puts him on broom duty, and sends him off to sweep the debris scattered around the Heelshire house.

She makes quick, but intense, work of the blood-stained floor, scrubbing roughly at the hardwood with a washcloth before eventually getting to a point where she is satisfied. She wants this part to be over, to have the house already cleaned and fixed and to have the only thing left to do be fixing _herself._

She slumps into the nearest chair and sighs. She wants to be clean, and she wants to sleep, possibly more than she’s wanted anything else in her life.

_If she’s this exhausted, then how tired is Brahms?_

She wills herself up and towards the sound of bristles _swish_ ing across the floor. Brahms stands, faced away from Greta; she doubts he hears her approach, because he’s humming. Not well, might she add. 

Soft, crackly, classical notes float over to her, and she can’t bring herself to interrupt, to break the scene apart by speaking. So she stands, fingers barely on the wall, and thinks about what she intends to do next.

She can tell he’s tired, his steps dragging across the floor. She realizes then that he has taken off his shoes, and wonders where he placed them. Each sweep of the broom seems to take it out of him, but his posture stays upright.

Greta thinks of him with a shovel, knee-deep in soil in some spot in the woods. She thinks of his shirt, again drenched in sweat despite the England cold. She thinks of him lift Cole’s body with ease, and toss him into the freshly dug hole. She thinks of Cole, drowning in dirt, and the worms racing to-

_What exactly is keeping her here?_

If she left, Brahms would not follow her. He would not chase. He would sit in this house and rot in it. 

Does she feel like he’s her responsibility, her charge? …No, not really, not exactly in that way.

But she feels as if she owes him something, anything. She feels as if she owes him a debt. He… in some twisted way, had protected her. 

_She_ would protect _him._


	2. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brahms gets a bath (and Greta feels dirtier for it) :-) purrr

Greta leaves the shower running as she steps from it, her eyes locking onto the keyhole. 

She sat Brahms outside just before jumping in, hands on his shoulders, and told him not to watch her, that it made her uncomfortable, and if she is uncomfortable, then she’ll have to leave. It’s an empty threat, but she doesn’t think for a second he’ll disobey her.

She changes in the bathroom quickly before stepping into cold, dry air and Brahms’ sits exactly where she left him, just outside the door, back against the wall.

“Alright. Your turn.” She grins, extending a hand toward the bathroom, and he wastes no time getting undressed. They’ve made no agreement for Greta helping, but he seems… used to it.

Brahms’ green cardigan crumples on the floor, quickly joined by his stained once-upon-a-time-white undershirt which Greta resolves to throw away the moment the opportunity arises. His hands rest at the waistband of his pants and- no! Greta jumps to stop him, her heart in her throat.

“That- _After I leave_ , ok?” This would be a step too far. Just one increment too intimate. Brahms’ eyes scan hers for a moment, just a breath or two, before he steps into the shower.

He’s seemingly unbothered as his pants soak through, shades darker than they ought to be. He simply watches her, head cocked, waiting for some sort of sign.

The burn doesn’t extend past his face, his neck and chest unmarred by the flames of twenty years ago. Bruises, shades of yellow and purple amass across his pale body, mostly small. Likely from their chase, but possibly from being a big man confined to small spaces for his whole life. This close, she can see his individual lashes. They’re longer on his left, while his right eyelashes are sparse, follicles burned closed. He blinks. Greta wishes (arbitrarily, in a teeny part of her mind) that she had more to react to than just his eyes.

She’ll wash his hair first. 

“H-head down, please.” He does, the crown of his head descending to Greta’s eye-level. She shakily pumps shampoo into her palm, glad to have his eyes off her for a moment, but confused as to why she’s so anxious. 

Her hands sink into Brahms’ black curls and she hears him sigh. A quick puff of air against porcelain. She works the shampoo into his scalp, softening clumps of dirt and blood before watching them drift down the drain. 

Soapy water runs down the lengths of her arms, dampening the sleeves of her shirt. She’ll have to change when they’re done. 

“You know...” Greta isn’t sure why she speaks, why she can’t just let it be silent and let the noise of the water speak for her. “-this would be easier without the mask.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, just slowly leans further into her touch, as if pulled by some magnetic force. She doesn’t push him away, and her sleeves go from damp to drenched. She doesn’t mean for her voice to come out as soft as it does.

“Close your eyes.” Brahms complies, or she assumes he does, as she guides his head into the shower’s stream, watching all the filth wash away. It’s incredibly satisfying, cleaning something so dirty. Having a positive change be attributed to her.

Greta looks down at his form, expansive and muscular in a way that doesn’t require exercise. Rivulets of water cut through the grime, leaving trails of clean smooth skin in their wake. 

She wants to make him spotless.

“Turn around for me.” Once again, he listens, silently turning away from her as warm water beats at his back, fingertips just barely touching the wall for balance.

Greta soaps up a washcloth before dragging it along the nape of his neck. He shudders, the muscles along his back flexing with the movement and Greta can no longer think. The washcloth slips from her hand and lands on the tile with a _splat._

“I think-“ This _is_ too far. “-you can do the rest on your own.” It feels cruel the moment she says it, like she’s punishing him for something he has no control over. She can’t look at his face right now. _This is just supposed to be a lesson_. “I’ll be outside, so you can wash your face, and… the rest.” She’s just _teaching him_ how to take a shower. ( _Is this really something that needed to be taught?_ )

Her face flushes hot and she steps outside without waiting for an answer.

~~

 _Greta is an idiot_. She propels herself onto the bed, face planting into the fine silk comforter and laying there for a moment.

She didn’t even ask if he needed help; she just assumed he needed it and it- got _weird_ , somehow.

Is she overreacting?

There was some sort of tension, some strange feeling, and maybe it was just on her end but _why did she put herself in that position when she could’ve just asked?_

She’s tossed out of her thoughts by a knock from the bathroom door.

“Are you going to leave?” Brahms speaks carefully, pitched up into the child’s voice and instantly, Greta is nauseous. The question passes through the door, just loud enough for her to hear. She hadn’t even noticed the shower turn off. 

The weight of her thoughts (fuck, she shouldn’t feel this way at all.) crash down on her like an anvil. A terrible, shitty, doll-shaped anvil.

She’s sick, she feels _sick._ He’s like a child- but _he’s not_. Brahms is an adult. _But_ , has he even read books not spoken to him through walls? Been given the opportunity of vicarious experience through movies? 

He’s _existed_ for twenty-eight years, but has he lived? 

She considers for a beat that _maybe_ her definition of living isn’t universal. 

She feels the teeniest bit less dreadful for it.

Greta rolls off of the bed and makes her way toward the door, her forehead tapping against the wood as she lays her palm flat against it. The hardwood is cold against her soles, and her eyes draw to the shadows of Brahms’ feet under the door. 

“No, I’m not leaving.” She wishes she had it in her to suppress sighs, but never has, and likely never will. Her eyes close. “I’m sorry if I seemed upset with you.” 

“You did.” Brahms pauses. “Seem upset.” He sounds as if he’s right on the other side of the door, his voice seeming to come from the space a half-foot above Greta’s hand.

“Well, I wasn’t.” _With you_ , she adds mentally.

“...Ok.” Another silence falls between them. “Can I have clothes?”

~~

The day passes for Greta as they all had in the month prior: slow as hell with little to do. She had found solace in the books around the house, having read at least a dozen or so of the thick tomes that populated the Heelshire home. She can’t say she liked all 12+, but hey.

She sits, feet tucked under her, nearly halfway through _Frankenstein_ , in much the same way as she had in the days before.

Except this time, she has a well-mannered voyeur (ignoring the murder, _of course_ ), tagging along wherever she goes, always nearby but not too close. Greta gets the distinct image of a puppy following its owner each time she peeks away from the book to find him looking, diligent as ever. She wonders what he- no. No more wondering. She’s going to just ask him this time.

She places a satin bookmark between the pages and sets the book aside, turning to Brahms. He makes no attempts to hide the fact he’s been watching her, clearly finding little shame in the act.

“What exactly did you do all day, before?”

“I’d be with you.” He cocks his head, voice carrying an air of puzzlement, as if the question is weird and not the answer. Greta feels her brow knit and Brahms seems to sense her confusion before she can voice it, searching for a better way to explain. His hands clench at his sides before disappearing behind his back.

“I’d be in the room-“ _in the walls_ , her brain adds. “-while you read.”

 _All day?_ Doesn’t he sleep? 

“Well,” The upholstery is soft and cool beneath her fingers as she pats the spot next to her. “-you don’t have to stand over there.” She leans a bit away from him and makes an attempt at being inviting, opening up her posture before gesturing with her arm for him to join her on the sofa. “You can sit with me, if you want.”

Brahms hesitates for a moment, then nods. His steps are light across the floor before he plops nexts to Greta, leaving little space between them. His ears are surprisingly pink, peeking from behind tufts of black hair.

Greta laughs softly before she can help it; there’s something so charming about his desperation to be loved ( _is that too strong of a word?_ ). The way he jumps at an opportunity for intimacy, and leaves no room for takebacks. 

Not that she would.

She taps her shoulder against his before opening up the book and continuing where she left off, this time reading the words aloud.

Brahms listens and eventually, Greta’s eyes flutter closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been sitting on this one for a lil bit bc I thought I might need to write more into it for it to be a “good chapter” but I like it :-))


	3. Like Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greta has a dream and a mild meltdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self-harm (Greta purposefully steps on glass) which starts after the sentence, “Greta considers for a moment, her foot arched” and ends at “Just a second.”

She dreams of digging.

The bones in her arms feel like jelly as the head of her shovel grows heavy with dirt as she digs, and digs, and _digs_ an endless hole. The cold that comes with being so deep in the earth numbs her fingers and when she finally looks up to the sky; she sees nothing but empty black. 

This means nothing to her. 

She digs, until finally the sink of metal into soil (she could hear that sound even when she stopped) is interrupted. She’s hit something, _wood_ , she thinks.

She doesn’t get her hopes up, simply digs faster, before dropping to her knees and scooping the soil with her bare hands. She’s freezing, but the frenzy she finds herself in warms her right up.  
A coffin, dark ash-brown wood, is lodged in the dirt. She digs into that too, ripping it open, eager to see what’s inside. 

Her mother rests, as pristine and false as she was at her wake ten years ago. Greta wishes she could remember her any other way, but that same (awfully) painted face cruelly posits itself over each and every one of Greta’s memories. She feels quietly as she looks at the corpse, nothing powerful enough to shake her bones, just a profoundly cold _empty._

It’s a drip at first, before it’s a flood; water fills the tomb Greta’s dug for herself, but she doesn’t move, her feet cemented into the ground. It rises still, instilling deeper the chill, yet she doesn’t shiver. 

The pool at her feet grows, mixing with the toiled dirt, passing her thighs now, and soon her mother is gone, lost in the murky water. She’s alone now, perhaps always has been, an island in a sea of mud.

Greta misses being able to remember what her mother was like.

The moment the water covers her nose, she wakes with a gasp, her shirt soaked through with cold sweat. She doesn’t move, simply heaves deep, uneven breaths.

“ _Fuck_.” It comes out hoarse and dry as she forces herself into a sitting position, muscles aching at the effort. A moment is spent wondering what she did to make herself sore, before falling on the obvious. 

It’s pitch black outside. She hadn’t even felt herself fall asleep, would think much more softly of Brahms’ kindness in taking her to bed if she weren’t so shaken. She coughs lightly into a closed fist, hoping to dislodge the knot in her throat. She fails.

Water would be fucking nice. And maybe a cigarette... possibly.

One thing at a time. Cigarette first, in the interest of time; she’s not even sure she’ll find it, and she certainly won’t be buying a pack. 

Greta snatches a cardigan from the closet in her room, wrapping herself in deep green-blue fabric before heading to the billiards room, barefoot, in search of Cole’s overnight duffel. 

She finds it quicker than expected, next to the couch, seemingly undisturbed by its owner's demise. Though, perhaps the straps do look a bit solemn, if she thinks about it hard enough. Ha.

Cole always keeps - _kept_ \- a pack on him wherever he went; she hopes it’s here, instead of six feet deep somewhere in the woods. For all his shit, the motherfucker _owes_ Greta this one thing. Her hand sinks into his bag, feeling clothes and return tickets before grazing a rectangular shape. 

_Bingo_. She smiles, removing a well-worn pack of Marlboro Reds, her bounty claimed.

Now for the water.

She steps out of the billiards room and into the kitchen, flicking the pack open and plucking one of three remaining cigs, before tossing the rest into the trash at the end of the island. She places it between her lips, unlit, freeing her hands as she makes herself a glass of water.

The stove lights, _tick-tick-tick_ ing, and Greta prods the flame with the rolled tobacco, quick so she can get outside without stinking up the place. Nothing she hates more than a house smelling like smoke. Well, actually there are quite a few things she hates more.

She grabs the water and leaves for the balcony, accidentally sloshing a bit onto the top of her foot. She sighs, but continues her speed-walk. It’ll dry.

The stone is cold against Greta’s feet as she steps onto the balcony, to a point just short of unbearable. The feeling makes her hold her breath for a moment, before she gets used to the quasi-pain, letting it all out into a sigh. The air she breathes turns opaque as it meets the freezing outside, and suddenly Greta feels wistful for all the times in elementary when she stepped outside with her friends, breathed into the chilly air, and laughed that she was smoking.

A melancholic smile pulls at her lips, as if nostalgia weaved a thread through one cheek and pulled up. The butt of the cigarette lies between her lips.

She takes a drag, pulling smoke into her mouth, tasting heat and dust, before letting that out to meet it too. She wants to lean into the feeling. Of being alone and tired, wants to lean into the concept that holding something between two fingers can magically make her feel better. 

It’s a layer of smoke-flavored saliva in her mouth, and she can’t even say it tastes _good._

Greta sighs and takes a swig from the glass of water cradled in her hand, washing down disappointment. 

It’s never helped, smoking. She’s not sure why she expected it to now. It was only ever an excuse, the one thing Cole would respect. It gave her a reason to be alone for a few minutes, without him to hang around her, to find something to criticize. Those shining moments of nicotine-addled peace ended abruptly the moment she’d passed the pregnancy test.

And that was fine, it was easy for her to stop.

She should’ve seen that having a child with Cole was a terrible idea, but Greta had a dream.

He would change when he knew she was pregnant, _he would_. He would be kind, and touch her lovingly. He wouldn’t drink so much. Greta wouldn’t feel so alone.

Cole fed into the fantasy, for the first few months. He _had_ been kind, drank _less_ , and she’d never felt so secure in all the years she had known him. (That’s a lie. _She knew it was coming_. She knew he couldn’t keep an act like this up for that long, but she hoped like some _fucking idiot_. Cole was never kind, not when he was comfortable. He became cruel and controlling the second he knew Greta couldn’t get away, didn’t have the courage to ruin a relationship, certainly wouldn’t want to ruin it with a child in the mix. She _knew_ this would happen, and yet.)

Greta would give _anything_ to not feel alone.

The nightmare left her raw and this train of thought is like two hands hooking both sides of a wound. It rips her open. She bleeds tears onto the stone, and her eyes screw shut. A whine crawls out of her throat before she can help it as boiling-hot tears drip down flushed cheeks.

She’s quiet at first, can’t hear much of anything over the sound of blood rushing through her ears as regret fills her, white-hot and painful.

“So _stupid-_!” Her cigarette disappears into the night as she hurls it, an orange dot lost in the black. She leans against the balcony railing, feeling the chill seep through her clothes, now-empty hand sinking into her hair and gripping. She sobs. “ _-so fucking stupid_.”

“Are you okay, Greta?” Brahms’ voice floats from the doorway, and Greta jumps nearly out of her skin, losing her grip on the glass of water. It shatters across the stone and spills over her foot for a second time, bracing.

She swears, sucking in a breath. Shame fills her cheeks, hot to the touch, and she knows she must look _awful_ , all blotchy and red amidst the cool tones of Heelshire. Warm tears cool on the palm of her hand. She does her best to wipe them away, as if she’d be able to convince _anyone_ -nevermind Brahms- she wasn’t in the middle of a spiral just moments ago. 

She’s not quite left it.

“It’s fine- _I’m fine_.” She lies. It’s unconvincing. She knows this, and the lie feels like smoke in her chest, filling and filling, taking up space and leaving no room for air.

They stand in silence, and Greta is suffocating. 

Brahms seems to sense her tension, but clearly doesn’t know how to ease it. His hand hesitantly extends towards her, offering help over the shattered glass and she takes it, outside silence contrasting inside discordance.

Greta considers for a moment, her foot arched above glass shards, that maybe, she _deserves_ to be hurt. In an instant, she determines herself guilty in a trial to determine what to do with that inward anger. Her heel comes down like a gavel.

There’s a split second where she wonders if she even did it at all. _Just_ a second.

She cries out, involuntary, her leg going out from under her in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Brahms’ unoccupied hand shoots forward to grip her side, slipping under her cardigan, and she regrets her tantrum instantly. 

Heat pours from his palm straight through her sleep-clothes and maybe she would appreciate that feeling of human connection if it weren’t so entwined with pain. 

Brahms stoops, his other hand releasing hers and grazing the backs of her knees before she’s no longer on her feet. He lifts her -ridiculously bridal-style- with a soft grunt, and takes her inside.

Ok, maybe Greta could appreciate the connection now, just a little bit. _Just the ittiest bittiest bit_. And she does, for the seconds before he sets her on the foot of the bed, appreciate the feeling of being held, supported and surrounded by silent understanding, a trail of red drips in their wake. 

A mumbled “thank you,” automatically leaves her lips, barely audible.

He says nothing, quickly leaving her alone, his slippered feet making little noise. Her lungs shudder in the time she waits, and she wishes she could find it in her to breathe steady, to not be _so loud_ about her anguish. 

She’s still post-sob shaking by the time he returns in front of Greta, eyes set on her. She peeks at the clear case in his hands, catching sight of bandaids and alcohol.

He’s so hard to read. She could attribute this to the mask, but honestly? Even if he didn’t wear it, she doubts she’d have more clarity. He huffs a breath before speaking, and Greta can just barely feel it against her forehead.

“Let me help.” 

~~

Brahms is quiet as he works, gentle as can be with Greta. His touch is light, ticklish, as if he were trying with every fiber in his being not to press too hard into her wound and hurt her. 

It’s almost embarrassing looking at this level of attentiveness head-on, like looking directly into the sun. She can hear the shuff of dry hands against cloth, the slightest sound of breathing.

Her eyes cling to the ceiling amidst their awkward silence, cataloguing each curve of the light fixture above their heads. Where her thoughts were so loud before, she finds quiet in the monotony of counting.

For all the attention she pays to it, she could likely carve out a rendition of the fixture herself by the time Brahms finally speaks.

“You aren’t.” His eyes flit to hers, before falling back to the task at hand. The words are soft, but certain. “‘ _Stupid_.’” 

Greta pauses. _She’s not stupid? What does that have to-_

 _Oh._ He heard her little tirade. She bristles at the thought, breathes a shuddering breath.

It was only moments ago, but it already felt so distant, like someone else took hold of her body for those few moments. Like she was barely present amidst the fog of fury.

Greta makes an affirmative noise, mouth closed. Looking at Brahms makes her want to cry again, but different this time.

His hands encompass her foot easily, delectably warm against her skin, even through the wrapping. The cloth circles around her sole two more times before Brahms sits back, as if waiting for her appraisal of his handiwork.

It’s terrible, way too much wrapping in one spot, and loose as all hell. But he certainly tried, and that meant something. Greta’s face cracks in a sympathetic, if not slightly teasing, smile.

“This is the worst, thank you.” The words feel tender in her mouth as Brahms’ head jerks up in alarm, visibly confused by the juxtaposition of her words and their tone.

She hikes her injured foot up onto the bed and fixes the bandages quickly. She’s glad Brahms interrupted her… episode. 

“Really…” Her hand finds its home atop Brahms’ head, giving him a few pats. “ _Thank you._ For everything.”

He pushes up into her palm, his eyes closed. 

Greta feels something _like_ better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a bit more time ʰᵉʰᵉʰᵉʰᵉʰᵉʰᵉ 🥲 hopefully the next will be quicker! >:-)
> 
> this chapter gave me very much (s)HE’S (br)OK(en) 🤨

**Author's Note:**

> it’s been so long since I’ve written fanfic!!! I hope y’all like it!
> 
> also ngl I literally can’t wait to get to the smut gaddam!!!


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